


Change My Attempt

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Dean, Angry Sam, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, College Student Sam, Hunter Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Stanford Era, Timestamp, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll let you know how it goes, Dad.” Hangs up, hot like metal in flaming oil, tosses the phone onto his empty passenger seat, eyes locked onto the expanse of highway before him.</p><p>In which Sam's gone off to college and John's sent Dean on one of his first hunts without the family.</p><p>Timestamp, Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change My Attempt

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Wasteland, by 10 Years.

Washington’s in a liquid state.

Might as well be claimed as an external branch of the Pacific Ocean.

Dean’s in a constant phase of wrinkling, raisin-skin so dehydrated it ought to be halfway back to its birth as a grape.

Been stuck here for three days so far, soaked to the very core of his bones, chattering porcelain teeth together so hard that he’s been gifted with an incessant migraine, slaughtering any brain cells he might have been born with. He fucking loathes this place.

Lake Crescent is about twelve miles long, monstrous thing, and the object of their investigation thus far. Dad had called him, knife-slice of a voice on the other end of the phone, too raspy to have gotten much sleep recently. Dean hazards a guess that Dad must’ve been yelling recently, or he’s finally fried his vocal chords with too many Marlboro Lights washed down with Jack.

“Got an old friend I owe a favor to, lives up in Washington. Piedmont, near Port Angeles.” Distinct pause then, as his father proceeds to cough up bile, which Dean is, unfortunately, privy to. “I can’t make it up there,”

_of course not, what the fuck does a favor mean, anyhow?_

“but I told ‘im I’d send you his way. Name’s Nick Fuller. He’s a good guy.” John rattles off some coordinates, asks him for a curosy update on his life.

_I’m good Dad. Still huntin,’ same as you taught me. Haven’t spoken to Sam since he left two months ago, but you didn’t ask that, did you?_

Hears in his father’s voice that he wants to ask about Sammy, can hear it in the broken-glass sounds of his words and the way he lingers a little too long on the phone, even though he’s out of questions and almost out of air.

“I’ll let you know how it goes, Dad.” Hangs up, hot like metal in flaming oil, tosses the phone onto his empty passenger seat, eyes locked onto the expanse of highway before him.

It’s eleven at night and he fishtails wildly as he jerks on the steering wheel, not bothering to slam on Baby’s brakes, doesn’t want to hear the sickly sound of rubber mating with asphalt. Hasn’t been to Washington in a long, long time.

And so it’s cold. Bitter even, and Dean’s taken to wearing less layers because he doesn’t want to have more to peel off later. Sticky-wet fabric, scent of rotting wood and fog, congealed to his insides.

Nick’s an Alpha, and he’s quieter than most Alphas Dean’s been subjugated to. Reminds him a bit of Sammy, with the way he seems to withdraw into himself, hunched shoulders falsifying his tall build. Dean snorts in his direction.

“Most non-threatening Alpha I’ve met yet.” Nick’s got blue-green eyes, color of stained glass and the sea, and he’s only an inch taller than Dean, which pleases him decisively. “Hope you don’t still say that when we’re huntin.’”

Dean shrugs, hooks his jacket over the iron and mahogany wrought chair in Nick’s small dining room. Iron’s curved into seamless tendrils, and Dean can’t see where it starts or where it’s supposed to end. Dean slumps down, been driving for eight hours straight, can hardly see his hand before his face, let alone keep up a conversation.

His holds his head up, cumbersome, one eye shut tight, as if that’ll be enough to grant him some semblance of sleep. “You mind if I…?” He allows his voice to trail into absence, waves his right hand in the air like a flag, blown haphazardly about by a listless wind.

Nick straightens up and smiles gently, can probably smell that Dean is about seven miles past bone-weary. Dean braces himself, fingers crunched tight around kneecaps. He scents the air thoroughly, knowing that Nick understands why he does this, why all hunters do it, straight off the bat. If they’re going to be working together, he needs to become as familiarized with Nick’s scent as he can.

Ideally, he wants to know all the nuances, wants to be able to smell when Nick’s aroma changes, even in the slightest, but that comes with time, and years. It’s flawless with mates, and infinitely stronger with packs, but time can afford a wolf a very stable bond, regardless.

Nick scents of mountain air, thin and light headed, the sharp tang of first snow. Different scent underneath that. Can’t place it. Smells like his father. Like grief. Dean rolls the flavors around on his tongue, and he’s so exhausted, so brain-dead with fatigue that he almost falls asleep in the serene smell. Nick leans forward, gently nudges him back up into something resembling an upright position.

“All right, kid, take it easy.” Dean huffs, mild noise in his throat. “M’not a kid. Or are you just that much older’n me?” Nick laughs at that and it’s a rumble, a distant relative of an Alpha growl. “I’m gonna scent you real quick and then I’ll show you where your room’s at.” Dean nods mindlessly, beyond discourse.

He feels Nick begin to scent, waves of hormones released, and knows what he’ll find, and he doesn’t have the stomach for it, not tonight. He’s working his way up to a sigh, and it’s laborious, because he’s expended all of his energy on the road today, focused on not hydroplaning through the perpetually wet streets of Washington.

Nick hums, short burst of thoughtful sound and then straightens, slides a hand around the flesh of Dean’s upper arm, pulls him upright in one fluid motion. “Smells like the lemon farm I grew up near.” He says, voice a thousand miles away. “C’mon, kid, I’ll tell you how everything’s gone to shit tomorrow.” Dean’s got no more words left in him, even if he tried.

He’s a mess when he wakes up the next morning, his boots lined up beside his bed, jackets still tangled around his limbs, strangling and serpentine. Every bone in his body protests, and some physically cry out as he stands, takes a curious look at his surroundings. Room’s painted yellow, real light yellow, you almost couldn’t tell. The sheets are cream-colored

_s’beige, Dean_

and thick, littered over with wine-red pillows. Dean sniffs. Nice digs. He’s considerably happier after a shower, decent water pressure and towels the same shade of red as the pillows in his room. Meticulous man, this Nick. His lower back aches from where he slept with his gun tucked snugly against his spine, too sleep-deceased to shove it under his pillow, like usual. He rubs there absently, scratches at the irritated skin.

He opts for a grey Henley as his only outerwear, already wary of the glue sticky nature of Washington monsoons. Nick’s got one hand on his chin when Dean clomps down the stairs, elephantine, and the other hand is curled around a black mug of coffee. He looks up with a smile, beard red-gold, an exotic contrast to chocolate brown hair.

Dean grunts his good morning. “Mind if I grab some?” He motions toward the coffee and Nick shakes his head in affirmation.

Dean’s sitting across from him, wondering if jizzing and drinking coffee in unison is featured on the list of steps to Nirvana, when Nick pushes aside the newspaper he’s been purusing and leans back in his chair.

“Whatever we’re dealing with, it’s in the water.” He pushes the paper at Dean, stabs a finger at the offending passage. “First person drowned about a week ago. Fifth one drowned just yesterday. Little girl, seven years old.” Nick pauses, forehead wrinkled, and then carries on.

“About, a day, maybe, after the first drowning, starts raining. Not like, scattered showers, but shit-storm from hell, round up two of every animal, type rain.” Dean chuckles at that, eyes carefully studying the rim of his mug. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Dean glances up at Nick. “Doesn’t it always rain up here? How d’you know this isn’t any different?” Nick shrugs. “I’ve lived here a long time. This isn’t a normal thing. Shit’s causing floods, pockets of them. It hasn’t even eased up. It’s raining now, can’t you hear it?” Dean’s aware, and the thought gives him chills.

“You gone down to check this out?” Nick shakes his head, no. “It’s over in Lake Crescent, and I wanted to wait til you showed up.” He pauses. “Didn’t feel comfortable goin’ into this without any backup.” Dean understands that. Doesn’t like the idea of doing it himself, but, desperate times.

“Well, doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon, might as well get to it.” Dean flexes, makes sure his gun is settled securely in his waistband. Nick nods and makes the same habitual check, pulls a rain jacket down from the hook in the corner of the room and tosses a darker one to Dean. They take Nick’s car, it’s a Jeep, and it’s a pretty sturdy ride, if Dean forces himself to admit it.

It’s not easily distinguishable as to what time of day it is, due to the rolling clouds and ominous thunderclaps, but it’s dark, and he stays close by Nick, unfamiliar with the terrain.

It’s pouring. Dean’s soaked through the raincoat already, and his hair is plastered onto his scalp. Nick’s not faring much better, though his hair is more spiky with the deluge. Dean can smell the man fairly accurately, pleased that his rushed scent-job panned out so well. The edge of the Lake is rolling with waves, and Dean uses his hand as a makeshift hat, forcing the rain from his eyes.

“Watch out for the waves,” Nick hollers, voice somehow still too low. Dean nods his acknowledgement, takes a cautionary step back. He splits away from his partner, bends to scour the earth underneath his boots. The waves are crashing harder now, with greater frequency than they were when he and Nick first arrived.

Dean casts a glance over at Nick, who is knee deep in mud. He inches closer to the water, pressing a foot down firmly against the liquid. The resounding wave is astronomical. Dean whips his offending appendage away, but the tower of water is still hurtling in his direction.

“DEAN!”

He hears, whipcord sharp, and then his body is flung sideways, neck snapping violently.

Fuck, he’s gonna pass out.

-

He’s dry when he awakens, and there’s an honest to God, Little House on the Prairie fire going on near his head. Nick’s in motion as soon as he cracks open an eye, and looks down at him dolefully. “Damned idiot, aren’t you? Just like your Dad. Told you to watch out for them damn waves.”

Dean waves the admonishment away, struggles to heave himself into a sitting position. Nick pushes him up with one palm, braces the middle of his back for a second. “Waves weren’t as bad til we got there, notice that?” Nick furrows his brow, considering.

“But how the hell could it tell?” Dean shrugs, curling his legs Indian style, every motion a feat. “Hell if I know.” His breath catches. “Know someone we can ask, though.” Dean’s thought of every excuse in the book to talk to Sam, and some made-up ones too. Called Sam seven times, each time when he knew Sam would be busy, or in class.

This way he could say he was a good brother, really looked out for Sammy. He’s punching in the familiar digits, managing the nervous flicker of his fingers, for Nick’s sake. Two rings in and he’s about to hang up, dial Bobby’s number like he should’ve done in the first place, when he hears the tinny laugh of the far away, and the slight huff of breath Dean knows means that Sam’s tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.

Dean wonders if he can pass off tears as rain.

“Hey, Sammy.” He’s proud of how cheerful he comes across, and Nick’s not looking at him anymore, listening to the conversation from afar, engrossed in some books.

“Dean?” Dean snorts, despite his best efforts and smiles so hard into the device he just knows Sammy can see it, anyway. “There’s Einstein. Listen, you got a second? Got something I wanna run by you.”

Dean deserves every award they’ve got in circulation, and then they need to make a special category, just for him, cause he’s a damned fine actor. “S-sure, Dean. Absolutely.” Little brother sounds happy, voice lit up like a couple thousand Hanukkah candles, and Dean’s heart is a cold stone in the river.

“Listen. M’in Washington, near this big ass lake, and five people have drowned there in a week. Me and Nick went by to check it out, and water just started throwing fucking waves at us, man, like Titanic type shit.” Dean pauses, pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“Dad’s old hunting friend,” Dean says tersely, in response to Sam’s question. “So, course, I step into the water, just a little, man, wanted to test out a theory,” Nick shoots him a loaded look and Dean grins, hedonistic bastard. “And like, the mothership of all waves tries to fucking gank me. You’re lucky you’re not the last Winchester son left. Have to carry on the family name.”

“Funny, Dean. Since, clearly, you have no sense of self-preservation, what happened next?” Dean gets comfortable on the ground, stretches out one lean leg. “Nick knocked me out of the way. Good dude.” Nick snorts in his corner, rolls his eyes spectacularly when Dean glances his way. “A little pissed at me, but then again, Sammy, who isn’t?”

Sam’s hushed on the phone, only thing Dean can make out is his heavy breathing. “Dyin’ over there Sam?” There’s silence and then Sam’s voice, all teenage moodiness and heat. “Just keep going, Dean.” “Anyway, that’s about all we got. In the paper, says that everyone who died was fishing on the Lake. That doesn’t seem like much, but, you know, that’s how these things go.”

He can hear the smile, and it’s a small thing, damn near invisible in Sam’s voice when he answers.

“Sure do. What’s the name of this lake?”

Dean grins, sits up on his knees, right hand tight around the phone, the other bracing all of his weight on his left thigh.

“You tryin’ to help us catch this bastard?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of two parts of what turned out to be an extensive timestamp, (due to the fact that it is also a case fic.) Hopefully you're interested in how the trio ends up solving the case!


End file.
